


A New Year's Kiss

by UselessPeasant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Happy Ending, I have several in my google drive, I suck at writing established relationships, M/M, Mutual Pining, My First Work in This Fandom, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, New Years, Pining, Sort Of, Work In Progress, but I've never published any for this fandom, lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:33:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28473984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UselessPeasant/pseuds/UselessPeasant
Summary: Based off of the "prompt": "The first new years after they get together, Sherlock is going to be so excited to finally get a kiss at midnight. He’s probably going to refuse to kiss John the entire day leading up to it because he wants it to be spectacular. It is spectacular, and afterwards, John can’t stop himself from making the ‘God, I haven’t kissed you since last year!” joke. Sherlock groans, rolling his eyes and kisses him again" but I suck at writing established relationship and honestly not my style in reading or writing, so instead they are still in the pining stage 😊
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 8





	A New Year's Kiss

John woke up, groggy. He rolled over, squinting to focus his eyes on the blurry numbers on his alarm clock. 7:14 am. As his brain took its lovely time waking up, thoughts slowly bled into the forefront of his mind. ‘Tuesday. New Year’s Eve. No work.’

He could already hear the distinct sound of his flatmate shuffling about below him. The sound of utensils clanking, teacups getting slammed down onto the counter, followed by the screech of furniture being rearranged, finally to the calming sound of the violin flowing up the stairs.

John smiled, earnestly, warmly. He roused himself from the comfort of his bed, only slightly drowsy. He stumbled ungracefully down the stairs in a poor attempt to stay silent as not to disturb Sherlock’s unusually uncatastrophic behaviour. Luckily, the man in the living room was unperturbed as indicated by the serene melody still drifting calmly through the flat. John would bet it’s even made its way down to Mrs. Hudson.

He practically waltzed into the living room, searching for Sherlock himself. He found the latter standing in front of the window to the left of the desk. His dressing gown flowed gracefully off his lean, pale, but tall form. His hips and torso waved softly to the music he enticed from the instrument he caressed just so. His fingers danced across the strings, his movements agile, yet tender, delicate, but stable. John came further into the room, proud and captivated. It’s not often that Sherlock allowed himself to play the violin with such ease and beauty, often dragging out a cacophony of unpleasant sounds.

Sherlock finished the song not long after, turning to address John’s presence. “Good morning, John.” The deep rumble of a voice still had a sour note to it, the kind of way you could tell the person hadn’t talked prior to then that morning; their ‘first words’ of the day, if you will.

“G’ morning.” John slurred lazily, rubbing his eyes with his fists. “There any tea yet?”

Sherlock hummed in affirmation, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the kitchen with a tilt of his chin. John turned around and walkeda into the kitchen. He grabbed the kettle and poured the contents into one of the teacups already on the counter. He methodically prepared it the way he liked it and strutted back into the living room. He placed it on the arm of his chair before sitting himself down. Sherlock, too, sat down in his own respective chair, watching John. He could practically feel the former’s eyes scraping over his skin and clothing, analyzing and scrutinizing him. “Sleep well?” John sipped in waiting.

Sherlock, for the first time in a long time, it seemed, was entirely willing to contribute to the menial conversation that ‘ordinary’, ‘pedestrian’ people take part in. (“DULL! Why bother asking about someone’s day if they are going to lie about it anyway?!”) “I slept fine.”

John hummed. “Good.” He after the first few weeks of living with the git, John never bothered waiting for the same question in return or continued on about his own day because it would either never come, or Sherlock would scoff haughtily.

“How did you sleep, John?”

‘Odd.’ John couldn’t find any sarcasm or ridicule in his voice. Sherlock was genuinely curious. “Yeah, I had a decent sleep. Although, I admit I felt… oh, what’s that word. Dopey? Hazy? … Groggy! Yes, that’s it.”

Sherlock nodded. “How’s your tea?”

“It… It’s fine? What-”

“Good, that’s good.”

The silence was palpable. John raised his eyebrow, Sherlock only stared unwaveringly at John. “Is the tea not supposed to be fine?” he asked tentatively.

“Oh, no no, John. It’s fine. I am just simply asking… to be accommodating.” Sherlock trailed off awkwardly, still staring at John.

John opened and closed his mouth, not sure what to say. “Oookay.” John let the silence fill the flat, neither man saying anything to quell the awkwardness. John finished his last sip of tea and made a move to stand.

“Stay!” John startled at the abruptness and gawked at the younger man, utterly gobsmacked. Sherlock’s dressing gown wooshed behind him, fluttering around his form as he moved in front of John. He stood there for a moment before gently prying the cup and saucer from John’s hands. He gracefully strolled into the kitchen, stopping in front of the sink and commenced washing the ceramic, along with the other dishes sat near the sink.

John fixated on Sherlock’s back curiously. ‘Honestly, what is going on?’ Upon looking around the rest of the kitchen, and even the flat in general. How did he miss this? The place is clean, tidy, and even organized! ‘Okay. What the bloody fuck is happening? Did Sherlock do something bad? Is this some plan to manipulate me?’

“John, do have faith in me.” John’s attention snapped back to the man in question. “Must you always assume I have bad intentions?”

“Well,” John straightened up in his seat, “given our history, especially Baskerville, I think I am entitled to believe that.” John could swear up and down that he saw Sherlock’s bottom lip pull out to form a pout. “What else am I supposed to think anyway, Sherlock? Even if we are friends,” Okay, John definitely saw Sherlock’s reaction this time. He had perked up slightly before slipping right back into that sad, sad look. “You never do anything nice for me, for the purpose of being nice. You make me a coffee? It’s drugged. You send me off to talk to someone nice to make it up to me? They’re a dangerous suspect in a case. Please, just name ONE time you did something nice for me that did not have another objective.”

Sherlock took a moment to think, his frown turned half a centimetre deeper, and the furrow between his brows becoming more evident. “I buy you dinner. In fact, I have several times. I paid for a majority of our outings after cases, be it you want a drink at the pub or dinner at some inane restaurant.”

John had to admit Sherlock was entirely correct. “Okay, fine. You’re right.” John turned back around, practically boring a hole into Sherlock’s chair. He could hear the last of the dishes being finished off and the tell-tale sign of Sherlock shuffling back into the living room. He flopped down in his chair across from John. The latter watched the younger man in endearment. He had pulled his legs off of the ground to curl up in his seat, not unlike a small kitten.

John grabbed a novel from the side and settled in. It would be a rather long day, otherwise.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

John sat across from Sherlock, reading his book. The man himself - still curled up - watched John shamelessly. He took his dear time taking in all of the small details about the doctor. His eyes, specifically, the way they flickered across the page, but every couple minutes would stray away or focus on one part of the book told Sherlock, while John did find the book entertaining, he was not entirely concentrating on it. Sometimes his mind would wander, or he’d lose his spot and have to reread the paragraph. Despite this, John must have felt there was nothing better to do, given away by the position of his hands and the occasional twitch of his eyebrow. 

Between cases, Sherlock often found himself feeling either manic or depressed. He often felt frustrated and anxious; restless and bitter. Sherlock often amazed himself after the fact when John still stayed after some of the more serious rows. Today, however, Sherlock had a plan. Unfortunately, John had already been getting suspicious which was definitely not ideal. If all goes well, John will be appreciative.

The two sat in silence for 43 minutes and 17.3 seconds before John’s phone rang. “Hello?”  
John’s face dropped when he saw the caller ID and the corners of his mouth dropped just slightly into a frown of disappointment.

‘Oh.’ Sherlock thought, crestfallen. ‘It’s the clinic. Co-worker fell sick, couldn’t make it in. Asking John to take over.’ John hung up first, put his novel down and faced Sherlock. He signed in annoyance.

“One of the doctors couldn’t make it in, so they want me in for today,” he explained, lips quirking just slightly, giving away his displeasure. “I had hoped to have the day off, but no matter.” He stood up, still addressing the other. “I’ll be back around 5, maybe 6 o’clock at the latest.”

Sherlock grumbled in response, having kept eye contact during the entire exchange. John walked out of the room and up the stairs. Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to John getting dressed for work. When John emerged from his room, he quickly popped into the living room once more - jacket, shoes, keys, check pocket for phone, tur-... silence. Sherlock’s eyelids twitched before opening. He caught John in the middle of his turn before he lazily marched down the stairs, not in any rush to make it to the station.

He heard him reach the landing, shout out to Mrs. Hudson that he was leaving, open and shut both doors before near-silence enveloped 221B. He could hear Mrs. Hudson puttering about not 5 minutes before her kitten heels click-clacked on the wooden stairs in a safe, practiced, measured manner. “Woo-hoo!” her gentle knock stunted in her attempt to keep the tray she was holding stable. “Today is New Year’s Eve, Sherlock. Last day of the year!”

“I am well aware,” he answered. 

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. “Since when?” She put the tray on the desk next to Sherlock. His eyes snapped open in realization and stared at his landlady. “You don’t care about what day it is, let alone the month or year if it doesn’t have anything to do with your detective work.” She paused purposely. He squinted at her. “Is it possible? That you have plans, I mean?” Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, my dear Sherlock. How wonderful! Do you plan on telling him?”

Sherlock stood and stared down Mrs. Hudson. “Oh, please,” she said. “I know l-”

“Don’t say it!” he hissed. 

She shook her head. “Sherlock.”

“Mrs. Hudson.” He continued to stare at her as she made him tea. He relented once the hot ceramic was cradled in his hands. He sat down and blew over the steaming, overly sweet, and milky leaf water. Mrs. Hudson made her own cup and sat in John’s chair. 

“What’s your plan?” 

“You’re really cutting to the point, aren’t you? I thought you people would dilly dally on trivial small talk, analogies, and so forth.”

“Ah, but I am no ordinary person, am I?”

Sherlock smiled warmly. “No, I suppose not.” He sipped his tea.

“So…?” 

“I, uhh… I plan on doing nice things for him, you know, making tea, dishes, cleaning the flat, dinner…”

“That’s good!”

‘There’s something else. Something I’m missing.’

“What?”

“Oh, nothing, dear. Nothing at all.” She shook her head, waving him off.

“No, tell me. What am I missing?”

“Well… what do you think? Who is he? What kind of person is John?” Sherlock tilted his head in thought. 

“John…” ‘John. Good old Jawn. John Hamish Watson. Strong, dependable, short, compact, loving, loyal, stubborn, rugged, sunny, doctery, sexy, steady, adrenaline junkie, thrill seeker, decidedly not-boring. 

A gasp. "A romantic." 

Mrs. Hudson smiled, sipping her tea proudly. "Knew you'd get there eventually, you know, you being a genius and all." 

Sherlock sat in his chair, thinking about how to improve his plan, tea abandoned. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

"Good morning, John. So sorry to call you in so suddenly, I know it's New Years Eve." 

John sigh, punching in as the secretary chattered away. "Yeah, don't worry about it," he said

"There won't be that many in today, knowing what day it is. I think it is mostly just worried parents with their sick children, you know, cold and flu, and then people who knew they had nothing better to do than schedule an appointment." 

He just chattered on and on as John smiled politely, just wanting the interaction to end, as nice as the secretary is. He finished as John slowly edged towards his office. "I'll send your patients in soon, Dr. Watson!" 

"Sure thing, thanks Jeremy."

He open the door and shut it behind him. He grumbled as he leaned against the wood, dreading the excruciating day ahead of him. A voice sound suspiciously Sherlock-like echoed 'tedious' around his head a few times.


End file.
